And so am I, full with the imprints of time and memory. I am rich in soul, yet I’m hungry for more. It’s not a feast I want, I keep my appetite for all things in moderation, but I want what singer Sam Garrett wants, “More life, more blessings; more peace, more unity.”
It’s easy to find in the solitude I am offered here at a cabin in the north, but peace and unity exist on flimsy ground, like whisps of smoke dispersing at the slightest wind.
Through the years, I’ve discovered that there are ghosts here in the souls of people whose ashes were placed on the lake shore. By here, I mean “The Old-Style Place,” a cabin that has been in the family for 50 years. Rustic, well-built, no running water, no bathroom, just an outhouse. Sweeping away the remnants of life’s past is part of my yearly visit here, and that’s just for starters.
In the Spring, one chore involves cleaning the outhouse; it means removing snake skins, sweeping away mounds of spider webs, and mopping up dust. Many people would not like this place. I note the quiet and the Buck Moon that’s half full tonight, a cipher in the sky hiding behind the large trees.
Imprints remain from those who sat on the dock while watching the western sun setting over the lake. Many of them have passed on: my parents, a childhood friend, an uncle, a few aunts, grandparents, and other friends and family.
They’re all here. Tonight.
The evening moves at a slow summer pace, transitioning from dusk to dark when loons begin their wailing and yodeling.… read more...
